


blood in her eyes

by Anonymous



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hate Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:54:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29519766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: So how does it get to this? She didn't keep track.(Archive 2013)
Relationships: Charlie Matheson/Bass Monroe
Kudos: 19
Collections: Anonymous Fics





	blood in her eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magisterequitum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterequitum/gifts).



> Written for magisterequitum, because she was having a bad day and I am incompetent at any other way of showing I care.
> 
> I did not get far into season two and most of my knowledge of it was absorbed from fandom osmosis, so please understand any errors or sloppiness here.

So yeah. She has sex with him.

Charlie doesn't know how it happened. (That's - that's not honest. But it's the closest she can get without looking at everything and getting sick to her stomach.) She hates Monroe. He's the cause of so many deaths, so much destruction. Danny was gunned down because of Monroe and his lust for power. She doesn't want to think about what she suspects her Mom went through. Monroe and...Miles.

Charlie tries not to think about Miles.

And she does hate. She _hates_ him. She uses it to drag herself along during the really dark nights, when she stands in the middle of a filthy camp with flickering lamps and sullen, drunken men and women and thinks about home. She thinks about rows of vegetable and Maggie's hands dancing over her scattered ingredients with Dad absently humming in front of the fire and Danny laughing softly on the couch, knees sprawled in front of him like a little kid's.

Charlie wanted to find a spot for Mom in that picture but she can't. Rachel's image is indelibly stained with the blood and grime of a post-Miles world.

And that's unfair, isn't it? That it's Miles she thinks of, not Tom Neville or her dad gutshot on the ground, smoke hanging in the air from Militia footsteps. But she does. It's Miles that pegs the turning point in her mind, like a grave marker for a kid she used to be.

And when she reaches that point in the meandering image of Home, she remembers that it's gone. She isn't even sure who she is any more; she's just sure she can't stay in town, trying to sidle into a nuclear family unit she's never known, trying to pretend they're not strangers who've murdered for each other.

Fuck, Charlie had a hand in dropping nuclear bombs on people. She can't escape that. And everything can be circled back to Monroe so easily: her mother's disappearance, her father's death, her brother's death, the slow breakdown of most of what she thought she knew about herself and, hell, the world.

And he's an easy target, too. He talks in that too-level voice and his eyes glitter with an odd flat shine when he looks at her and he really doesn't show repentance. He wants a place with them, he wants to weasel his way under her arm into the family fold and find a purpose and maybe a home for the errant killing machine he turned out to be. But he's never apologized. She'd spit in his face if he did, but he never even began.

He's filthy and wild-eyed and too-strong. He's a murderer.

Maybe a little - just a little, because God would Charlie love to put a crossbow bolt between his shoulder blades - of why she doesn't kill him is because she's a little scared of what she'll be left with when her enemy is gone.

So how does it get to this? She didn't keep track.

How does it get to Charlie, straddling him, holding his own knife to his throat and knowing he could take it away. One twist of his arm, a flat knock to her forearm and she'd be in the dirt, the knife buried in her throat, or her gut, or the dirt.

Especially because he's inside of her. And she doesn't know if it's the hatred or the adrenaline or the fact that this man with his blunt, bloody fingertips knows half her secrets and would probably be bored with the rest - she doesn't have to trip over any words or struggle with whether she even wants to let someone else close enough for a hello because Monroe didn't wait for an invitation, he shouldered his way in and took the space - but whatever it is, he's hot and feels big and she twists her hips against the silky, pulsing friction and knows that she could be knocked over with a feather right now, her focus is so frayed.

He saved her life. (She doesn't owe him shit.) But he saved her life.

She wants to say a thousand stupid things like _I don't trust you, I'll kill you, you fucking murderer, get the hell away from me_ to hide the fact that she's making little sounds between her teeth. She keeps her voice locked in her chest but it sneaks out between gasps. Monroe's hand lands on her hip and squeezes, bruisingly tight; Charlie shivers her head down to look at him and sees that his pupils are blown wide as dimes and he's staring at her just as fixedly as he stares at her over the camp fire.

"Cut it out," she grits out, puts a hand on his jaw and shoves his face sideways. His other hand grabs her hip, like he's biting back a retaliation, and the knife almost cuts him by accident. His jaw clenches under her palm. But she can't have him looking at her like that or every time their eyes meet on the road she'll remember this. Now she knows that the way he looks at her when she's spitting insults, like he's peeling back her skull, is the same way he looks at her when he's buried balls-deep in her body and she's shivering on top of him like a virgin.

Charlie closes her eyes and grits her teeth and knows that no matter what face he makes it's a lost cause. She's going to remember him like this, stretched under her, his stubble scraping her palm and his fingers marking her body.

He turns his head just a hair, lips moving against her palm as she resumes the steady rocking of her hips. A garbled cry is torn from her and he almost twitches - if Charlie wasn't so far gone she'd cringe. It sounded erotic, vulnerable, like a woman in bed with her lover instead of...somebody who'd fuck a mass murderer in the dirt, anyway.

She slams down against him, tightening around the slow, thick, simmering stretch of his cock inside her. She wants it rough but she clenches her jaw. Monroe kissed all with teeth and the weight of his body and Charlie isn't going to give him his way even if she's giving him everything else.

A hot spasm of pleasure bends her forward; she curls around her body, helplessly _against_ him, and she makes another one of those small, helpless noises. She's unravelling. She's not crying, even though she half thinks she should be. Her face is just burning, her hands shaking, her rhythm breaking up and those soft, shattered little sounds escaping her lips. Her grip on his face has changed without meaning too, nails digging into his cheek slightly but thumb slipping gently against his slightly parted lips and he's - he's amazingly still. His eyes are almost completely closed. She has an absurd moment of pedestrian worry that her bed partner isn't that interested - especially ridiculous considering how hard he is inside of her - and then her open mouth lands on his cheek in a kiss that could almost be called tender just because she's gasping too desperately to use teeth.

His head turns like a snake's striking, that kind of explosion of muscle from stillness. Her wrist sends up a flare of pain when he twists it free of the knife and then her back hits the dirt with a blunt and jarring complaint. His elbow is under her knee and he _pushes_ \- god, jesus, fuck, sliding that last hair deeper into her. Lips touch her collarbone. He sucks a slow heated kiss against her neck and her fingers curl into the air like she's gonna grab a fistful of curls and yank.

He's secured her wrists in his hands, she discovers, and her body spares a moment for cold, sensible fear, clenching around him, before he groans in his throat and fucks viciously up into her.

Charlie bucks and whines and her world vanishes in a syrupy wash of pleasure, clinging to her tongue and her lungs and her thighs. His mouth is moving down, to her breasts. She hadn't pictured Monroe as a guy capable of this much consideration to a lover.

She bucks against him again and his thumbs dig into her wrists. "You're - you're hurting me," Charlie stammers, dazed, her voice sounding too husky.

His grip loosens instantly and cautiously and Charlie feels a hot jolt of anger that gets lost in the blooming edge of orgasm. She suddenly feels the chill of leaves and dirt against her neck, and she remembers _he can't risk pissing me off because he wants to get back to town, to Miles and Rachel, to his purpose -_

Between her teeth, cheeks burning with dull heat, hating the note of begging in her voice, she says, "don't stop."

His grip spasms shut around her arms again, practically grinding the bones together. It hurts, and she hates him, and he's fucking her roughly half-off the sloppy bedroll, her heels digging into the flexing muscle in the back of his thighs. It's all she can feel. It's all that matters. For just a little more, she's nothing but a girl in a striving, urgent, anonymous body.

She tastes blood while she comes and chokes out his name, but he hasn't kissed her in a while. It must be coming from inside.


End file.
